"I can't." I said.

    "What do you mean, you can't. Do it. Just like this."

    "Don't you get it? I can't. I have a different way, style of painting, drawing. If I drew something it wouldn't come near it. And besides I think the artist needs more imagination."

    "You always have something to say. It's because you're not good. You can't do it. You're wasting my money and my time. I don't know why I bother."

    "Come on, look at my paintings. They are abstract but... "

    "I can't see anything!"

    "You're not looking at all. You don't see it."

    "That's right. I don't. I don't see it. There is nothing to see."

    The white canvas sang as I stepped inside the room. It said "I want to be an instrument with strings. I want to be music. A flute instead of a guitar. Give me that. Beautiful music with your yellows and reds. I want to drown, bleed with music. Give me the blues. Give me the blues."

    I saw that the floor was swept. She had been in my space... again. Probably cursed the sight of that dreadful spot of paint that dropped from my paintbrush. I accidentally painted the wall, but now I see it is scrubbed and slightly discolored. Oh no! A new paint job. She opened the windows so the smell of the turpentine wouldn't invade the rest of the house, but it always did. I left the room with the music in my head becoming silenced, the canvas unmarked in its stark white.

    My aunt came over. It was a surprise visit and an unwelcomed one. She always had something to say, something critical, of course. It was surprising when she showed interest in my work. She held a book titled How to Draw Flowers. A tracing book. "Look, see. Your aunt's also an artist. I drew them very well." I shook my head and smiled, holding back the laughter that would have been honest and hurtful. I looked off and found something better to do.

    My uncle called also. "Your uncle here is an artist, you know. When I was younger I worked in pastels and charcoal, watercolor, sculpture. I wasn't bad either. You know, you must keep at it. Dedication is all, you know." I must say that this was one of his shorter speeches. He rather preached the word, but didn't follow what he preached. I know that, yes, maybe he was an artist, but if he was true to himself there wouldn't be that word was. He continued to talk and I listened with half an ear, agreeing with his "right"!

    "When is that little painting thing going to earn us some money?" She looked at me. "Or is this just a little hobby?"

    I went inside the room. The canvas sang alto. The sun brightened the room and it was merry, too merry in the maddening yellow paint of the walls. A silver square danced on the canvas. The alto became a soprano and the song lost its words. It became a screech, a high pitched caged animal sound. I closed the blinds.

    The subway station was loud, as usual. I enjoy watching people. Some never know they're being observed. Their habits are magnified in my eyes. The way they walk, talk, eat their food. Everything. They are the stars of their show, as well as the directors, costume designers and make up artists! My God, how some women just let it go! The make up and dress, an image to be captured in drawing. I whipped out my sketchbook and sketched the person most unaware of my presence. Which are often a lot of people. But I get caught sometimes, and I have gotten looks of great distaste. I don't like people looking over my shoulder or having somebody watch me watch somebody else. But I do have my daily fans who smile or wink. Nothing confrontational, but this time somebody was watching me, and I realized I had become the star of his show. He came up to me, introduced himself, an open person. "Nice drawing," he said.

    "Thanks." I looked back at the woman. She was gone. "My model moved."

    "It happens. Is this for school or are you an artist?"

    "I'm an artist."

    "I'm not convinced."

    I looked at him in shock.

    "Your tone. Your tone of voice is your champion. If you don't believe it, nobody else will. Now again, are you an artist!"

    He made me smile. He suddenly became the teacher giving his student a pep talk.

    "Well, I'm waiting for an answer."

    "You have it."

    "Let me hear it."

    "Yes. I am an artist."

    "Thank you." He smiled. His train came down the platform. "My train. Going my way?"

    I could have hopped that train and gone anywhere in the city, but I said "no" and quickly waved goodbye. I watched the doors close. The voice inside my head said "Idiot. Idiot. Idiot." in a continuous stream. But I left the train station with a new state of mind. One that cannot be shattered or broken. I appreciate little moments. This little one was a big one, important for the soul.

    I returned to my room and began painting. It became a beautiful piece with all the music and passion it promised.

    I found her in my room. She looked at me. "I like it. I don't know what it is, but I like it. Is there a figure in there?"

    "Yes, there is."

    "I see her. Is she sitting in front of a window or something?"

    "Close enough."